As a Lady Should
by Silvia Grace
Summary: Inspired by the Campania Arc, Lizzie ruminates on the idea of being ladylike during afternoon fencing practice. One shot.


**My first attempt at a one shot, dedicated to the dearest Lady Elizabeth Midford.**

* * *

The rain clouds had finally broken apart so the sunlight could shine through. The rays came into the fencing room, making the wooden floorboards sparkle like diamonds. It might have been distracting hadn't Elizabeth Midford been entirely focused on her opponent's every move. They weren't faster than she and their footing lacked coordination, but they were light of step and lithe of limb- not much of an attacker but a good defender, which required the same amount of attention on her end and theirs. The measure between them remained fairly wide. Elizabeth wasn't sure if her opponent meant to lure her in or if they were afraid to advance. Not that it mattered. Lunging from that distance would be nothing. Her limbs had grown long and strong.

-}%{-

"That's another whole inch, Miss Elizabeth!" her nursemaid had cried. Elizabeth whipped her head around and her curls blocked her sight. She pushed them out of the way and stared at the numbers scribbled on the wall. She beamed and laughed. It was true! In only a month she had gained a proud inch in height. Suddenly the growing pains in her joints weren't so intolerable. She stepped aside and pulled her playmate forward by the hand.

"Come on, Ciel!" she said. "You next."

"Okay!" he grinned. Ciel stood in the place where Lizzie had been and pressed his back against the wall.

"Alright then!" said the nursemaid in her cockney accent that Elizabeth so loved. "Let's see how big you've gotten, Young Master Ciel!" She stretched the measuring tape up from the floor and marked where the top of Ciel's head ended in pencil. The smile fell from her lips.

"What's wrong?" asked Ciel, sensing that she was stalling with the news.

"Ah..." the nursemaid said. "It seems that you haven't grown, Young Master Ciel."

Ciel looked back to her with those big baby-blues. "Not at all?" he asked.

The nursemaid began to speak but changed her mind halfway through the thought. "So it app- actually. Wait a minute!" She leaned down to show him. "I think I see a centimeter or two!"

Later on that day, Ciel and Elizabeth sat on the floor of the playroom. He hadn't spoken for a while. He mindlessly pushed a toy train back and forth in front of him.

"Are you sad, Ciel?" Lizzie asked him.

He shrugged.

"Are you angry?"

He shrugged again.

"Won't you tell me what's wrong?"

Ciel looked up plainly. " _I'm_ supposed to be taller."

Lizzie felt hurt. She didn't know why. "Pardon?"

"The man is always taller than the woman," he went on matter-of-factly. "My father is taller than my mother. Your parents are the same. The husband is supposed to be bigger than the wife. Girls should be small. Not boys." He pushed the train away from him so it sped off and bumped into the toy chest. It fell dumbly on its side.

"I'll be small for you!" Lizzie said.

"How?" Ciel asked. "You can't stop yourself from growing."

"Yes I can!" said Lizzie indignantly. "You just watch."

That night before bed, Elizabeth pressed down on her head with both hands so hard she gave herself a migraine that lasted until morning.

-}%{-

 _Parry, reposte, retreat_. Her opponent had caught her off guard during her daydream. Luckily she blocked the assault, though her counter attack hadn't been anymore successful. She must pull herself together. Why suddenly was she so whimsical that afternoon? Couldn't she sink in thought while _not_ in the presence of weaponry? She took a deep breath and honed in on the dual. _Thrust, tierce, coup d'arrêt._ In a gracefully quick succession, her opponent blocked her attack and struck her forearm with their foil. Forgetting the dual, Lizzie clamped her hand over the spot where she'd been touched. It didn't hurt badly. Chances were she wouldn't even bruise. Her whites ***** along with her muscle had given her protection. But the insult stung more than the injury.

-}%{-

"Goodness. Just look at those forearms! She could wrestle a Strong Man with those meaty things."

"And have you seen her ankles? No wonder she's already wearing long skirts. I've seen thinner bones on my father's Clydesdales."

"Even her complexion is getting manlier. You notice she didn't bring a parasol along...?"

Elizabeth excused herself from the conversation she had been having and hurried past the three girls who whispered about her behind their hands. It took all the fortitude she had to pretend she hadn't heard them. Normally she loved lawn parties, but lately she noticed her friends were no longer friendly. Instead of dancing or playing games, they gossiped and meanly critiqued the bodies of their fellow females. But she never thought that she would become the target of their judgment. Hiding her face with her fan, she walked quickly to the powder room.

After locking the door behind her, and being sure she was alone, she broke down in tears. She collapsed on the small sofa and muffled her sobs with a frilly pillow. The things those girls had said about her body never occurred to her before, but as she sat with her ankles crossed and her arms pulled close, she realised truer words had never been spoken. The bones of her ankles banged against each other painfully and her arms were significantly larger pressed against her body. And what was that on the back of her hand? A freckle? She shot straight to her feet, disgusted. How did she allow herself to become such? She thought of the promise she had made Ciel to stay dainty and small. Ciel, whose bones were so fine his rings would slide off his fingers, whose skin was so fair she could trail his veins up the length of his arms. What a cruel joke that fate had switched their places. She looked in the mirror and angled herself this way and that until she had created a silhouette which pleased her. But there was one more thing she must fix. She bent over the sink and splashed her face with cool water to calm the inflammation from weeping. Gently, as not to upset her skin again, she pat her face dry. Then she took the powder puff from its pink box and pressed it to every bit of exposed skin. Crying made her so ugly.

-}%{-

Never had Lizzie been more thankful for her helmet. She could feel her face and eyes burning. The stubborn tears blocked her vision, made it difficult to see through the steel mesh. But she wouldn't call for a halt, fearful that her voice might break. She fought on, clumsy and desperate now, making stupider and stupider moves. She side-stepped too soon, tripped over her own feet and toppled over. But she wasn't embarrassed. Being on the ground had a sort of comfort in that moment. Down there, she had no responsibilities. No one to impress, no values to uphold, no one to look pretty for. She was simply Elizabeth. Just a girl.

-}%{-

"Get up."

Sharp heels struck the ground with an even sharper sound.

"Get up, Elizabeth. You're better than this." Francis Midford stood over her daughter. She pointed her sabre away from Lizzie's face, but still held it attentively.

But Elizabeth was spent. "I'm really not," she mumbled back. Her muscles were aching, her toes were starting to cramp, sweat pooled in uncomfortable places, the helmet had positively _destroyed_ her curls. She pulled it off her head and let it drop by her side.

Her mother was furious. "How dare you remove protective wear with my weapon at the ready?"

"I'll remove it when I want," Lizzie said under her breath.

"I beg your pardon?" Francis began to redden.

"Why do you teach me this useless sport?" Lizzie was suddenly shouting. "What good is it to someone like me?"

Francis removed her helmet, freeing that single blonde strand that hung over her high forehead. "And what are you like, exactly?" Although she wasn't shouting, her her words held the same intensity.

"I'm just a girl!" Elizabeth stamped her feet like a child might.

"Yes, you are," Francis agreed. "All the more reason to teach you how to defend yourself with a vengeance."

"But why are you so hard on me?" she asked on the edge of tears. "Why not this indifference when you teach Edward?"

"Because Edward does not oppose me," her mother answered. "He accepts his place and receives his role as an honour."

"That is not my place," muttered Lizzie.

"And what is your place, my dear?"

Elizabeth didn't speak. Her mother began to circle her like a vulture. She crossed her arms and kept her eyes straight ahead.

"Is your place hovering over a stove top, cook book in hand?"

Lizzie shook her head. "No."

"Huh. Is it becoming an incubator, giving life to everyone but yourself?"

Blonde curls swayed back and forth. "No."

"It's not? Then surely it's eagerly awaiting your husband's return so you can wait on him hand and foot?"

Elizabeth's throat clenched tight. "No."

Francis rounded on Lizzie and looked down at her. "Then where is your place, daughter?"

"I don't know!" Elizabeth cried out through tears.

"Don't you? Then I'll tell you!" Francis said, shouting herself now. "Your place is here, with this surname and that sabre. It is a place of Pride, of Integrity and Respect for One's Self. You ask why I treat you and your brother differently. I do not treat you like a Midford _man_ because you are a Midford _woman_. And we hold ourselves in an esteem given to us by no one but our own. It is not a skill and it cannot be taught. It is a birthright. _That_ is why I say you are better than this. Now stand up from that floor and put it back where it belongs: beneath you. Like all those stations I just mentioned. No time to dally, girl, stand up."

Elizabeth did as she was told, though a little shakily it must be said. She sniffled grossly and cleaned her face with her sleeve.

"Good," Francis said, though she didn't soften. "Put your helmet back on."

Slowly, she pulled it over her flattened hair. Her mother did the same.

"Salute," said Francis, her voice muffled then.

They acknowledged each other with a sweep of their sabres.

"En garde."

They crooked their knees, raised their weapons, bent their elbows.

Elizabeth would swear that she could hear a smile in her mother's voice.

"Allez."

-}%{-

Lizzie had stood from the ground and tore into the match, lunging with a speed that surprised even herself. Her thrusts were fierce. Her whip-overs were like lightning. With every attack the parries of her opponent grew weaker. She thought she could hear them calling for a halt, but her sabre had a mind of its own. It was as if her trusty weapon was living out the actions it had dreamed of, the ones Lizzie denied it for so long. It would have been selfish to tell it to stop. But then something bad happened. Her opponent had thrown off his helmet to shout at her, and her whip-over had caught his face. At once, everything came to a full stop.

Lizzie had sliced Ciel's cheek open, and he now stood a foot from her, his face bleeding like ink on wet paper. The blood dripped all the way down his chin and neck and stained his collar. It was a very vicious wound.

"Oh my God," Elizabeth whispered. She dropped her sabre and helmet and rushed to Ciel.

He put out his hand. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"Fine? Ciel." Lizzie grabbed his face to examine the wound. "Look at what I did to you!"

"And if I had kept my helmet on, it wouldn't have happened," he said. "Really, don't worry about it. It looks a lot worse than it feels." Ciel pulled a kerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his cheek. "I was actually wondering when you would start fighting me for real."

"... What?"

"For a second there I thought you were going easy on me," he explained. "I'll never get any better if my teacher gives me special treatment."

"Teacher?" Lizzie asked, growing more confused.

"Of course," Ciel said. "You're loads better than I am, you know that."

"That... that doesn't bother you?"

Ciel shook his head. "No, don't be silly. It actually... gives me a kind of assurance to see that you can take care of yourself."

"I don't understand," Lizzie admitted.

Ciel paused. "Well, there may come a day when I'm not around to look after you and-"

"I hate when you talk like this!"

"But it's true. My job is very dangerous and it makes me-"

Elizabeth put her hands over her ears. "Stop it!"

"It makes me very glad that you are strong and able. I'm proud that you can fend for yourself."

Lizzie lowered her hands. "Really?"

"Really." Ciel looked in her eyes and smiled a bit. "Truth be told, I can't stand a damsel in distress."

"But you always said that you wanted a small, pretty wife."

"That's what I said when I was a child because I was unable to form my own opinions then." He chuckled. "Which gives you insight into the minds of grown men who still think like that, eh?"

They laughed together and there was a knock on the salle door. A moment later the Butler entered, immediately looking put out.

"Young Master, what's happened?" he asked. He held Ciel's face the way Lizzie had.

"I took off my helmet too soon," Ciel spoke before Lizzie could.

Sebastian looked at Elizabeth from the corner of his eye. "And the Lady could not hold her attack?"

Again, Ciel beat Lizzie to an explanation. "I practically stepped into it. Honestly, it's my fault."

"I am not looking to place blame," said the Butler. "I'm only noting how serious of a wound this is."

Lizzie had been looking away to avoid Sebastian's punishing glare, but when she finally did meet his eyes he wasn't glaring at all. In fact, she was quite sure that he had... smiled at her? No, it couldn't be that. Must have been a trick of the light, like the diamond dusted floor.

"Well," the Butler said. "Now is as good a time as any to announce that your tea is waiting in the parlour."

Ciel looked to Lizzie with a pleasant expression. "Are you ready for a break?"

Elizabeth smiled, very happy that the lesson had turned out as it had. "Yes, I am," she said.

She began to follow Ciel and Sebastian out of the salle but turned back at the door. Picking up her helmet and sabre from the floor, she walked to the wide window sill. She lay the two items on the ledge with reverence so they could catch the sunlight. As she left the room the sabre reflected sunbeams onto her back that lit up her hair like a crown.

* * *

 ***Whites are the padded uniform worn for fencing.**

 **Edit: I forgot to mention, this was submitted to pupacirci's tumblr for a writing contest. Deadline is the 31st of May. Be sure to look at their blog for the winners!**


End file.
